


When I Sleep (I Dream Of Violence)

by Mysterycheerio



Series: Worlds Change (When Eyes Meet) [3]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt Peter Parker, Hydra (Marvel), Nightmares, Peter Parker Has Nightmares, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 08:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30103212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mysterycheerio/pseuds/Mysterycheerio
Summary: and when i slept, i dreamt of violence. of the horrors i had seen.THIS ISNT GOOD I DID IT IN AN HOUR AT SCHOOL ONCE PLS DONT COME FOR ME
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Worlds Change (When Eyes Meet) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140755
Comments: 18
Kudos: 28





	When I Sleep (I Dream Of Violence)

**Author's Note:**

> tw: ptsd/nightmares,

He registers vaguely that he’s crying. Warm liquid seeps down his cheeks, leaving radiant, shimmering constellation-like patterns all across his face. He breathes out and suddenly it feels like blood, thick blood oozing down his cheeks. He touches the blood and looks at his fingers and they’re stained red, the liquid slick and sticky.

He’s on his knees now, coughing up blood just like that night, trying in vain to catch it with his hands. The air around him is suddenly thick with dust, and he’s coughing, choking on it with every inhale. He barely registers a soft, comforting voice talking to him, soothing him but he can’t make out what it’s saying or who it is because the twisted metal all around him makes a screeching sound so excruciating he abandons all attempts to catch the blood steadily dripping from his mouth, in favour of slamming his palms onto his ears.

There’s roses and peonies and sunflowers blossoming in his chest, their vines crawling through his ribcage, up his stomach, and finally wrapping themselves around his lungs, compressing his lungs and shattering his ribs and oh god, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, warm, calloused. Something in him is relieved at the comforting touch, an unconscious part of him whispering safety, but he can’t relax because he doesn’t know who this is and he’s learnt over the past year that you can’t blindly trust anyone. Last time someone comforted him, last time he let his guard down, any hope still lingering in his stomach dissipated when he was betrayed.

There’s glass shattering around him, his reflection not visible in the pale green mist. The shards fall, a low chant of never good enough echoing in the shatters and he instinctually protects his head, but he realises its moving further away from him. Its falling in a straight line, moving further and further until he sees the girl in the flower dress in front of him. She seems okay, and for a split second he allows himself to relish in that fact, before blood seeps from her eyes just like it had for him. An image of those two dancing in the gates of hell appears, listening to silence because the music died long ago. The blood seeps out her mouth now too, and her ears and her nose and suddenly she’s choking on her blood.

Something inside of him screams at him to help her, so he forces himself up on weak legs and runs to her, just in time to catch her when she collapses. Blood-soaked hands hold her by her head, tears holding stars drip on her face as the quiet murmurs turn into an awe-inspiring crescendo of never good enough, never good enough, never good enough. The hand on his shoulder grasps tighter almost desperately, and the vines around his ribs, lungs and heart tighten, the rose thorns puncturing his soul but he can’t bring himself to care, cause the girl in the flower dress is dead and he’s screaming himself raw but he can’t hear himself.

He hasn’t taken his eyes off her body. Brown eyes meets brown and there are still gold flecks in hers, as there was in his when he was a child, but there’s no longer that inquisitive look in them, or the calculating gaze or the sparkle he saw whenever he complimented her and shed fire back with a sarcastic comment like, and therefore I have value, or that’s what the government wants you to think.

And suddenly… silence. His heartbeat stops slamming against his ribcage and the screaming stops, the vines loosen and crawl back into the unknown. The blood dripping from his eyes, nose, mouth and ears are tears again, drying just as quickly as they’d come. The Girl in the Flower Dress disappears the moment he looks at his hands to realize the blood on there had gone too.

He can’t hear anything. There’s nothing to be heard. There’s a congregation of silent sounds, an anticipation boiling under his skin so violently he forces himself up on shaky legs and looks around, wanting to see something, hear something, but nothing at all.

And somehow, the silence is worse than the deafening assembly of sounds that was assaulting his senses. Somehow, its worse to see the Girl in the Flower Dress slipping through his fingers into an abyss of loneliness than holding her corpse.

The voice is getting louder.

The hand gripping his shoulder grips tighter.

And he’s free.

He sits up, dishevelled, in his bed. His heart is once again slamming into his chest painfully, and his breaths come from his mouth in ugly pants. The hand is still on his shoulder, but the feeling is more defined than the dull phantom touch in… his dream? Nightmare? He can feel the warmth radiating from it, the relief he associates with that action with such intensity, it creates a choked sob, which escapes his lips with a pathetic whimper.

It’s dark; he doesn’t know who it is, but he still manages to fly from his sitting position, to wrap his arms around a neck, sobbing at the comfort it gives him. There’s a hand rubbing sift, soothing circles on his back, whispering reassurances, and he finds himself, for the first time in a while, believing all of it.

His breath is laboured and there’s tears falling down his cheeks but he doesn’t actually care, he just throws himself around the man’s neck, resting his tear stained cheek on his shoulder.

“You’re gonna be okay, kid.”

**Author's Note:**

> maybe comment? if u want?


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